


Racerback

by intravenusann



Series: Richie Tozier's Foot Fetish [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Armpit Kink, Body Hair, Body Worship, Come Eating, Foot Fetish, Foot Jobs, M/M, Richie Tozier's Trashmouth, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23326684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/intravenusann
Summary: “You already had some breakfast sausage this morning, but you can always come back for seconds at the Tozier buffet,” Richie says, laughing at his own dick jokes.“If you don’t shut up, I’ll shut you up,” Eddie tells him.“Oh? I get the breakfast sausage?” Richie asks. “What have I done to deserve a second helping of Eddie Kaspbrak’s hot meat —”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Richie Tozier's Foot Fetish [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677526
Comments: 24
Kudos: 251





	Racerback

**Author's Note:**

> This fic talks a lot about eating ass, but no asses get eaten.

According to his FitBit, Eddie wakes up briefly around 1 a.m., when Richie finally climbs into bed. At 5:07 a.m., Eddie actually wakes up and carefully slips his right hand out of its resting place under Richie’s shirt. He kisses the back of Richie’s head where the hair is most tangled. Richie doesn’t stir. But Eddie checks, while he dresses in the running clothes that he laid out before he went to sleep, that he’s not being too loud.

Eddie has a lot of practice in all the skills it takes to sneak around a house, a bedroom, but he’s never used them like this. He has never carefully balanced on one foot to pull his socks on without disturbing the bed because he worried about someone else’s sleep cycles. If Richie got into bed at 1 a.m. then he would have fallen asleep by 1:20 a.m. at the _earliest_. And Eddie’s trying not to be neurotic about it, but Richie deserves more than three and a half hours of sleep on a Saturday. Richie can get his R.E.M. sleep, and Eddie can get his morning exercise. They can, they can, they can.

They can have it all!

Eddie waits to stretch out his shoulder until he’s silently, softly shut the bedroom door behind him. 

And that’s for the best because when he rolls his shoulders back and imagines the blades of his scapula laying flat — the flow of energy moving down his back like Adriene describes it — his fucking joint cracks as loud as a pellet gun.

“Ah, fuck me!” Eddie hisses.

He goes into the kitchen and pours a tall glass of water. Holding the Brita pitcher up, he thinks about the safety of storing multiple replacement filters at a time. Won’t they wear out? He wonders if there’s enough water left for coffee. And if there’s enough for coffee, will there be enough for Richie to have some water, too? Should he just refill it?

Eddie rolls his shoulders. He listens to the bones crack again. Then, he puts the filter back and chugs his water.

He uses the guest bathroom to take a leak, thinks about all the stupid fucking things Richie used to joke about as kids, and washes his hands as thoroughly as a surgeon — all the way up the elbows.

“Fucking dick cancer,” Eddie mutters as he puts his FitBit back on.

Eddie stretches in the living room, socks slipping on the hardwood floor. He doesn’t feel like disinfecting his yoga mat, so he slowly works through some standing positions. Chest open, heart lifted, shoulder blades down. His body creaks and crunches. He feels like a piece of rusted machinery, obsolete and abandoned. He feels like a lemon, an absolute bomb of a sedan that’s been totaled and put back together and sold off to an idiot who doesn’t know what to look for or can’t afford better. 

His tongue is dry when he breathes out through his mouth. He feels like he can smell the sweetness of his own tooth decay. 

He yanks the fridge open too hard, then glances at the bedroom door. He pours another, smaller glass of water and sips it.

After washing both his water glasses, Eddie takes the stairs out of the building.

He walks for five minutes — an estimate — and then jogs for three, walks for one, jogs for three, walks for one, jogs for three. He ought to be keeping track. Sometimes, he keeps track. Sometimes, he doesn’t. Today he means to jog for three minutes, but then he looks at his FitBit and it’s been thirteen. Is this jogging? His toes hit the sidewalk in a rhythm. But, there is that hanging moment between steps, between breaths. Eddie chases that down and thirteen minutes turns into twenty. Sweat runs down every inch of him.

The wind moves through him. He moves through it. The energy flows up his body and down his shoulder blades, drips down his calves into the elastic of his socks.

His hands and feet, always cold, sometimes numb, throb with the hot pulse of blood.

“You,” his left foot says.

“Are,” his right foot says.

“Fucking,” his left hand says.

“Alive,” his right hand says.

At twenty-seven minutes, Eddie’s body reminds him that he’s missing a lobe from one of his lungs. He coughs up sputum and bends over his knees. All his blood rushes to his face.

He stands up and lifts his arms.

“Fuck!” he says. A woman walking her dog crosses the street to avoid him.

Thankfully, Eddie only runs laps in the park near the apartment building. He’s not doing this for the scenery. So, he doesn’t have to walk far to get home. It’s the same five-minute walk. He uses the stairs to stretch out his hamstrings. His blood sits heavy in his limbs now.

He climbs the stairs and unlocks the door to the apartment he shares with Richie. He looks for him. His whole body is wet and flushed; Eddie can’t keep himself from hoping.

But Richie isn’t lounging naked on their ultrasuede sectional. So, Eddie unlaces his running shoes and drops his keys into the basket by the door. 

It’s important for Richie to sleep, Eddie reminds himself. When he finishes stretching and the sweat has dried half-sticky on the backs of his knees and between his shoulders, it’s only 6:12 a.m. Eddie quietly slips back into their bedroom. He peels off his sweaty clothes and puts them in the laundry basket. 

It’s their apartment, he reminds himself, he can go around naked if he wants to. Richie jokes about it, when he sees it, calls Eddie a “naturalist” and a “granola-eating hippie fuck.” He raises his eyebrows and stares at Eddie with his eyes wide and a big, happy grin, and says stupid shit like, “Damn, is this coming out of my rent?” and “Shit, Kaspbrak, put that away before you take somebody’s eye out.”

Eddie washes his face and then his hair, his neck, his chest, his armpits, his arms, his back, his groin, his thighs, his shins, even the spaces between his toes. He’s got a nylon shower towel; he replaces it every month. He’s pretty sure that Richie uses it, too. But neither of them says anything about that.

He dries off, and it doesn’t matter if this is Richie’s towel or his. They are both white and get laundered twice a week. But Eddie presses the towel against his face and hopes maybe it is Richie’s. He stands in the bathroom, the door locked behind him, and shaves his face. Then, finally, he brushes his teeth. He counts to one hundred and twenty in his head, because he’s too lazy to change his FitBit display just to brush his teeth.

When Eddie unlocks the bathroom door, Richie’s face scrunches up. The light falls over him and he blinks.

“Naked ass burglar using my shower,” he says, in a sleep-rough voice. Eddie licks his lips and they taste like Sensodyne.

“Put your glasses on, four eyes,” Eddie tells him. “I live here.”

Richie grins at him, all squinty and rumpled. He rises from bed like a tidal wave — which is incidentally, also what his hair looks like. Grabbing his glasses and sliding them on, Richie moves toward Eddie.

“Gonna brush my teeth,” he says, when he meets Eddie in the bathroom doorway.

“You don’t have to,” Eddie says. He tilts his chin up and meets Richie’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Richie says. He leans down to meet Eddie’s mouth. His lips are just slightly parted, a little spit-damp. They stick to Eddie’s lips. It’s a wet and shallow kiss.

“But I’m gonna,” Richie says, right under Eddie’s nose. Eddie’s nose wrinkles, because he smells like sour milk somehow. Neither of them even drinks milk.

Eddie moves out of the way, the two of them twisting around each other so close that Richie’s arm hair brushes against Eddie’s elbow. He climbs into Richie’s space on the bed. It’s still warm, under the covers. The pillow has been caved in by the side of Richie’s head. Eddie places his cheek there, smelling Richie’s shampoo and his sleep drool, while he watches the way Richie’s arm jiggles as he brushes his teeth. He wants to sink his incisors into the meat of Richie’s triceps.

Richie hums himself a little song to track the time, then spits and rinses. He uses his hand to get the water into his mouth, even though they have a cup by the sink and Eddie washes it every other day.

When Richie comes back, he’s still humming his tooth-brushing song.

He leans down and lifts up the blanket. Then he stops. Eddie watches his eyes move slowly one way and then the other. He blinks behind his glasses.

“Hey, Eds, what are the symptoms of a heart attack again?” he asks.

“It’s not a heart attack, Rich, it’s an erection,” Eddie tells him. “You’ve made that joke like eight times.”

Richie breaks out into a big, beautiful grin. His lips are wet. His mouth is going to taste like Sensodyne now. 

“If it ain’t broke,” Richie says.

“Get in bed with me,” Eddie says. But he doesn’t make any room for Richie. He waits for Richie to climb in on top of him.

He licks his lips, then leans up to lick Richie’s lips. They do taste the same. His tongue slides over Richie’s teeth, feeling out the slightly uneven tooth that makes Richie’s smile so charming. He runs his hand through Richie’s bedhead until it tangles around his knuckles. 

“You feel amazing,” Eddie tells him. 

“Yeah, Eds,” Richie says. He kisses the corner of Eddie’s mouth. Eddie tries to turn his head, but Richie is already moving to his cheek, his chin, his jaw. “’Cause you make me feel amazing.”

“No, shut up,” Eddie says. His hand is up the back of the shirt that Richie slept in. “I mean you’re amazing, you dumbass.”

Richie laughs right into his ear and Eddie’s hips jerk up so suddenly that his lower back hurts. Eddie rolls them over, shoving at Richie’s shoulder and his ribs. He pulls on Richie’s hair just a little until Richie’s mouth hangs open and he whines. The blankets get caught under Richie’s back.

“Can I jerk you off?” Eddie asks. “I wanna jerk you off.”

“Fuck yes,” Richie tells him. “Go ahead. Do whatever, do anything.”

“I’m going to jerk you off,” Eddie says. “And I want you to come in my mouth.”

And Richie makes a noise that might be a word, then says, “Yeah, okay, do that.”

“Would you…” Eddie starts.

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie chants. “Fuck yeah.”

He wraps his hand around Eddie’s cock. Eddie crushes a kiss down against Richie’s mouth. He gives himself beard burn by rubbing his freshly shaven chin against Richie’s face. His hips thrust against Richie’s fist. They kiss and kiss while Eddie pulls down the elastic of Richie’s checkered boxer shorts. 

With practice, they’ve gotten good at doing this while pressed tightly against each other. Eddie doesn’t care if his wrist aches sharply; he doesn’t worry about it. He’s got Richie where he wants him, hot and damp in his hand. Richie breathes into his mouth, breathes through him. Eddie feels heady with power and a little short of breath.

“Eds,” Richie says. “Babe.” 

Eddie bites his lower lip, hard. He doesn’t want to stop kissing.

“Shit! Not helping!” Richie hisses. “Gonna come, you horny little bastard.”

“Oh,” Eddie says. He’s panting. 

“Shit, shit,” Eddie says. “Don’t come yet.”

When Eddie sits up, Richie’s hand leaves his cock. So Eddie jerks himself off as he shuffles down the bed on his knees. He licks his lips.

“Jesus Christ,” Richie says, and combs his hair back with his hand. His nostrils flare. His mouth hangs open. His shirt has been pushed up under his armpits and the sweat from their bodies has pressed all the hair on his belly down against his skin.

The space under Eddie’s tongue floods with spit. He doesn’t swallow it. Instead, it drips down Richie’s cock, slipping past Eddie’s lips. Richie makes one half-choked groan and then goes quiet.

“Fuck,” he says, while Eddie tries to do three things at once. He’s got a mouth and two hands. He can do this. Multi-tasking is not a myth.

“Eddie, Eddie,” Richie says. “I can’t.”

The sound he makes is guttural, obscene. It’s pornographic. Richie’s come floods his mouth, runs bitter all across Eddie’s tongue. He swallows, but some drips out of the corner of his mouth. Richie lets out another hiccuping groan. Eddie keeps swallowing and jerking himself off. His eyes are squeezed tight shut.

The head of Richie’s cock fills his mouth so well. Eddie doesn’t know if that means that Richie’s cock is big or his mouth is small. Both feel embarrassing and arousing. He likes thinking about it while jerking off. He braces his hand on Richie’s leg. His knees are spread, settled on the outside of Richie’s shins. He’s got his ass practically in the air. Richie’s hand strokes the damp curls of hair at the nape of Eddie’s head.

“Fuck, gorgeous,” Richie says. “I think you sucked my brain out through my balls.”

Eddie comes so hard he sees starbursts of light behind his eyelids. His hips jerk in the air. His toes curl on nothing. He digs his well-filed nails into the meat of Richie’s thigh.

After that, Eddie needs a moment just to rest his cheek against Richie’s stomach. He listens to the harshness of his own breath and the quiet churning of Richie’s guts. He loves those guts. Richie strokes one hand over Eddie’s hair, fingertips brushing against the top of Eddie’s ear.

“You’re so good to me,” Richie says. “This is like… Every morning, it feels like I woke up and I’m in some idyllic sex fantasy version of my own life. It’s just missing the porn music — bow-chikka-wha-wha.”

Eddie doesn’t know what to say to that. He lifts his head and finds Richie looking at him with only a soft smile. His glasses are slightly crooked on his nose. Eddie sits up, stretches until his shoulder pops, and then wiggles up the bed. He rebalances Richie’s glasses.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks. “I want to kiss you.”

“See?” Richie says. “That’s the kind of shit I’m talking about.”

“Answer the question, dickwad,” Eddie says.

“Yeah, baby, you’ve got an All-Access Pass to Richie kissies, you don’t even have to ask,” Richie tells him. But Eddie likes to ask, because he wants Richie to know: Eddie likes kissing him. He wants to do it. He wants to do it all the time. 

So he bends down and kisses him, pushes his tongue into Richie’s mouth and then pulls back. “Can you taste your come in my mouth?”

“Oh, fuck,” Richie says, and then kisses him. His arms go around Eddie’s shoulders. He pulls Eddie down against him.

They make out, wet and loud and without the intention of fucking.

“I love you,” Richie says.

“You need more sleep,” Eddie tells him.

When Richie lets him go, Eddie pushes himself up on his forearms and kisses Richie’s forehead. There’s a lot of real estate there for kisses. It’s nice. Eddie gets a curl of hair up his nose for a second. The sleep-sweaty smell of Richie’s hair makes Eddie feel hollowed out and full of warm air, sunshine, the steam from a fresh cup of coffee.

He climbs off of Richie and watches him yank the blanket out from under his own bare ass. Rather than pull his boxers up, Richie kicks them off. He pulls his shirt off, too. Eddie sighs, full of the longing to climb in next to Richie and press their skin together until he falls asleep. But he should make coffee instead. And do the dishes. He’s got some meal prepping to do and he should think about what to make next week. 

“See you later, Eddie-gator,” Richie tells him, and then shuts his eyes when Eddie complains about how that doesn’t even make sense. His glasses are still on, but he turns his head like he’s going to fall asleep.

Eddie picks out the clothes he’s going to wear in the raw, certain that if he turned around from the dresser he’d find Richie looking at him. But he doesn’t turn around. He wants to be looked at if Richie wants to look. He does not want Richie to get embarrassed and squeeze his eyes shut until his whole face scrunches in around them.

He goes into the bathroom and locks the door again while he puts on deodorant and lotion, then his clothes. When he comes back into their bedroom, Richie’s glasses are folded on his bedside table.

Eddie closes the bedroom door as quietly as he can, looking back through it until he can’t see Richie anymore.

There is a dishwasher to be filled. There’s coffee to be made. There are pantry staples to be checked on.

While the dishwasher churns and the coffee maker bubbles, Eddie writes down groceries and dry goods they need. He puts on a pair of loafers to get the newspaper, and when he returns the coffee is made. He pours himself a cup, adds a heaping spoonful of Stevia, and then goes to the couch to do today’s crossword and sudoku.

The distant noise of the dishwasher says that Eddie can take care of himself. He can take care of a household. Most importantly, he can take care of Richie who would never research dishwashers by efficiency and value or keep a gallon of bleach solution ready under the sinks. Some of the things Eddie does might be unnecessary, but they make him feel better. That’s important, his therapist assured him.

And Richie thanks him all the time. He doesn’t do laundry or vacuum while Richie’s sleeping. He doesn’t have a meltdown if the towels can’t get washed until the weekend or the cleaning service can’t fit them in on their usual day.

Eddie sips his coffee and thinks: My life is better with Richie, but Richie’s life is better with me, too.

Then, he smiles while he finishes the sudoku challenge.

Richie shambles out of their bedroom at 9:05 a.m, after Eddie has emptied the dishwasher and moved all the pans into a drying rack. It’s pretty early for Richie, which makes Eddie worry not only about Richie’s sleep but also about the quality of their sex life. There’s a kind of pride he takes in waking Richie up for a  _ purpose _ and then having him pass out for four hours to recover.

“Morning, Rich,” Eddie says. He picks up his second cup of coffee off the side table and drinks a lukewarm swallow.

“Hey, sexy,” Richie mutters. He goes into the kitchen. Eddie doesn’t look at him, because, if he does, he’ll only be able to think about all the things he could have done to help Richie get a little more sleep.

“Drink some water!” Eddie says, loudly. He hears the fridge open and shut.

With his laptop across his thighs, Eddie switches between tabs of news and recipes, reading only a few lines of anything. He hears Richie shuffling around in the kitchen: the carafe sliding out of the coffee maker, water running in the kitchen sink, the refrigerator opening and closing. He hears the cupboards open and close, open and close.

Eddie looks up. His mouth opens around a word beginning with “Wh.” But he falls silent.

Richie pulls away from the open cabinet and yawns. Both of his arms stretch up toward the kitchen ceiling. For a nearly hallucinatory moment, it seems to Eddie as though Richie’s knuckles could brush the top of the cabinets. Eddie shakes his head.

Deltoid, he thinks. The meat of it stands out not at all like the anatomical diagrams on the walls at Eddie’s physical therapy office. There are seven? Twenty? Oh, who fucking cares how many muscles there are in the human forearm. Richie’s grabbing at things up on the highest shelf, and Eddie has 20-20 vision but he suddenly wishes he had binoculars. Why couldn’t Stan have gotten him some for his birthday?

Eddie closes his laptop and sets it on the coffee table.

Richie’s shirt has a racerback that’s been cut down past his ribs. And the bottom raggedly curls up, like someone hacked half of it off with scissors. Richie’s belly juts out over the waistband of his grey sweatpants. 

“Where the fuck did you go?” Richie asks. He turns around, toward the kitchen sink, and puts his hands on his hips. Eddie can see both of Richie’s shoulder blades, the freckle that Eddie made him see a dermatologist about, the few stray hairs. He can see the dark fuzz above Richie’s hips, too, beneath the small of his back. And the way his waistline is broader than his hips but not his thighs so there’s a narrowness where Richie’s ass fills out his sweatpants.

Eddie knows — like he knows the shorter route to Gabriel’s from their apartment and GoogleMaps is full of shit — that Richie isn’t wearing underwear. 

“I’m right here,” Eddie says.

“Not you!” Richie says. “The waffle maker. Where the hell did I put it?”

He turns around and Eddie’s eyes lock onto the suggestion of his cock resting against his thigh. He’s not hard at all. But Eddie could get him hard. He could get him so hard that the heather gray fabric would turn dark and damp.

“I think it’s on the shelf above the coffee,” Eddie says. 

“Oh,” Richie says. “Thanks, Eds!”

He crosses the kitchen and opens the cupboard over the coffee maker. 

Richie’s legs are long enough that his sweatpants stop right above his hairy ankles, even when he wears them low above his hips. The hair below Richie’s navel and on his back makes Eddie think about how the waistband must be sitting right on Richie’s pubes. He could walk right over there now, while Richie’s hands are busy, and pull them down the curve of his ass like nothing. Eddie could have his dick out and pushed against the cleft of Richie’s ass in under five seconds.

“Why are you making waffles?” Eddie asks.

He could bend Richie over the counter and pull his sweatpants down and jam his tongue up Richie in under three seconds.

“’Cause you just washed the frying pan,” Richie says. “So I can’t make pancakes.”

Eddie thinks about the first time he ate Richie out: Richie had made a disgusting joke about frozen yogurt out of nowhere while Eddie was trying to read “Born to Run.” Eddie had replied, in the knee jerk way he always did with Richie. Richie had laughed and told him he couldn’t imagine Eddie ever putting his mouth anywhere near an asshole. And Eddie had pointed out that he’d already sucked a dick and had his tongue all over a urethra. Richie had pretended not to know what a urethra was. Eddie had said the words “piss slit.” Richie had laughed until Eddie yanked the memory foam pillow out from under his head and whacked Richie in the tits with it.

Then, they had made out. Then they had taken a shower together. Eddie had said something about how he’d put his tongue in more than one vagina.

“I don’t know what that has to do with anything,” Richie had said.

“Well, I just think that if I can put my dick in you, I can put my tongue in you,” Eddie had explained.

Now, his dick twitches in his briefs. Richie is talking about bacon. He keeps gesturing with one hand and leaning against the kitchen counter. His shirt is cut so deep that Eddie can see one pink nipple peeking out, surrounded by brown hair.

“Come here,” Eddie says.

Richie freezes with his hand in the air and his mouth open.

“Why?” he asks. “What’s a matter?”

“I don’t want to make out with you in the kitchen,” Eddie says. “Because then I’m going to want to fuck you in the kitchen, and we make food in here.”

“Oh,” Richie says.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Oh.”

“So,” Richie smirks, “no waffles?”

“Shut up,” Eddie says.

He moves forward and so does Richie, but Richie puts his hands on Eddie’s face and Eddie grabs him by the straps of his shitty tank top. Richie’s chest hair tickles his knuckles. Eddie drags him backwards out of the kitchen and past their small dining table.

“You already had some breakfast sausage this morning, but you can always come back for seconds at the Tozier buffet,” Richie says, laughing at his own dick jokes.

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll shut you up,” Eddie tells him.

“Oh? I get the breakfast sausage?” Richie asks. “What have I done to deserve a second helping of Eddie Kaspbrak’s hot meat —”

Eddie hauls Richie around by his shirt so hard the fabric sounds like it’s ripping.

“Shit, sorry,” he says.

“It’s fine,” Richie says. Eddie shoves him in the chest so that he stumbles back onto the lounge part of the sectional.

He makes a soft sound on impact, all the air coming out of him. But he doesn’t try to sit up, just lays there with his glasses knocked askew and his shirt pulled down so his whole, hairy chest shows.

“What’s gotten into you this morning?” he asks, smirking. “My unwashed bod got you feeling all leather daddy in khakis? Or is this Fifty Shades of Grey Sweats?”

“Work on that one,” Eddie advises him. “It might be funny when I can think about anything other than scraping your skin off with my tongue.”

“Ooh, that’s a little fucked up, Eds,” Richie says. “I like my skin.”

Eddie leans a hand on Richie’s chest as he climbs on top of him. Richie tastes like black coffee, sour and bitter and dark. Eddie pushes his tongue into his mouth until he can feel Richie’s breath in the back of his throat. He presses his dick against Richie’s thigh. He massages Richie’s chest, finding the muscle against his sternum and working all the way over to his arm.

Richie starts to get hard against Eddie’s hip. His hands pull Eddie’s shirt loose. Eddie moves his mouth to Richie’s chin and then his unshaven neck.

“You’re so hot,” Eddie says. “What the fuck, Richie.”

His fingers slip into Richie’s armpit as he massages the muscle with his thumb.

“ _ You’re _ so hot,” Richie says. Then he chokes when Eddie bites him on the shoulder. He pulls Richie’s tank top out of the way so he can kiss Richie’s chest. It means he’s putting all his weight on Richie, but there are no complaints.

He drags the flat of his tongue against the grain of Richie’s chest hair. It rubs against his lips and the end of his nose. He presses his face hard against Richie’s skin, until he can’t breathe. Then he pulls back with a gasp.

“Feels like you’re trying to eat me,” Richie says.

“Good,” Eddie tells him, and then he bites him above the nipple. Richie shrieks. But his cock gets much harder under Eddie.

“Do that shit again, you crazy fucker,” Richie says. “Holy shit!”

So Eddie does. He runs his teeth over Richie’s nipple and licks him over his ribs. He moves back up to start a hickey right on Richie’s shoulder while he grinds his cock against Richie’s thigh. It’s so broad and solid between Eddie’s legs. Everything about Richie is solid and warm. He smells like bed, Eddie thinks. He smells like  _ our _ bed.

Eddie kisses down Richie’s bicep, nipping at the skin. Then slides his nose into the fold of Richie’s armpit. The warm, human smell of him fills Eddie’s mouth when he inhales. So he does what feels right: he licks him.

“Jesus!” Richie shouts.

Eddie sits up so suddenly his ribs hurt.

“Are you wearing deodorant or anything?” he asks.

“No,” Richie says. “Fuck, sorry.”

“Okay, good,” Eddie says. He grabs Richie’s elbow and levers his arm up.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

“Is what okay?” Richie asks. “It would help if I knew what you’re trying to do.”

“I don’t know,” Eddie says. He looks at the thick dark hair in Richie’s pit. The sharp smell of him is still inside Eddie’s nose. He hasn’t showered, Eddie thinks. He showered last night, because he always does after shows and because Eddie would hate him getting secondhand smoke stink on their bedsheets. But Richie hasn’t showered since Eddie sucked his brain out through his balls.

He smells like sex.

Eddie shrugs. “Uh, armpit stuff?”

Richie’s eyebrows appear over the frames of his glasses. Then he starts laughing.

“You’re such a dick,” Eddie says.

“Yep!” Richie cheerfully agrees. “That’s my name!”

“Is it okay, though?” Eddie asks. “Answer the fucking question. Dick.”

“Whatever, hot stuff,” Richie says. “Slobber all over my hairy pits if it turns your crank. Put your dick in there, if you want.”

He won’t stop laughing.

“Maybe that  _ is _ what I want,” Eddie says.

He looks down at Richie and watches his smile fade. His eyes are so large, so dark behind his glasses. He’s beautiful.

“Yeah, Eds, anything you want,” Richie says. He licks his lips; they’re very wet. Eddie swallows.

“There’s gonna be a limit to that someday,” Eddie says.

“There hasn’t been one yet,” Richie says.

And Eddie has to kiss him, then. He has to. Because he’s absolutely going to lick Richie’s armpit — just to try it — and what if it’s actually gross and he doesn’t like it?

Eddie thinks about how he had fingered Richie with soap-coated hands in the shower that first time. All he could taste was the shower water and the soap. He didn’t really know how Richie tasted until the fourth time. It wasn’t great, but Eddie doesn’t put his tongue up Richie’s asshole for the gourmet experience. He does it because it makes Richie sob and beg and literally come to pieces in Eddie’s hands. He does it because Richie likes it and it makes Eddie’s dick hard as fucking diamonds. Fuck that, hard as whatever it is they cut diamonds with.

Anyway, afterwards he had to brush his teeth and tongue and gargle until he could kiss Richie again without thinking he might give him E. coli.

But Eddie cares far less about what he might give himself. He absolutely knows the human body is crawling with germs. Armpits are no exception. But if he wants to lick Richie, he’s going to. And he’ll worry about kissing Richie with pit-breath afterwards.

Eddie pulls back, short of breath from kissing. His lips throb. He’s been scrubbing them raw on the stubble around Richie’s mouth.

“Alright,” Eddie says. “I’m going to do it.”

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Okay.”

Eddie leans his weight into the hand on Richie’s elbow until he’s a little worried about hurting him. There’s a gorgeous line running up from Richie’s chest through the curve of his deltoid. Eddie bows his head and kisses it. He feels like what he’s doing might be considered worship, but it’s terribly selfish.

He tries not to think about all the ways in which Richie is bigger and stronger and  _ hairier _ than he is. That’s something to get into with his therapist: the idea that Richie defines Eddie’s concepts of the masculine, and how pinning him down on the couch makes Eddie feel butch as fuck, more than any suit or car or jockstrap.

Eddie presses his nose and mouth right into the thick of Richie’s pit hair. Richie’s chest shudders. 

It’s a little damp already. Eddie thinks it’s from his own, hot breath, at first. He’s breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. The smell of Richie’s body, warm and intimate, reaches the back of Eddie’s tongue. He purses his lips against all the hair and leaves a smacking kiss. It tickles.

For both of them, if the noise Richie makes is any indication.

“Eddie,” he says, soft and low.

Eddie tastes salt when he finally presses his tongue to Richie’s skin and hair. He tests it, first. It’s not any different from running his tongue up the crease of Richie’s inner thigh or the back of his knee. Maybe, it’s a little hairier. More like pressing his nose into Richie’s pubes before blowing him or running his tongue up the cleft of Richie’s ass before fucking him.

He drags his tongue up Richie’s pit once, then again. He licks him from his ribs to the smooth skin of his inner arm.

“Jesus,” Richie says. “Fuck.”

The hair gets wet, sticking to Richie’s skin the way Eddie’s tongue directs it. His mouth waters. The salt taste gets diluted. Eddie bites Richie’s arm just to hear the sound he makes. 

Then he gets back to spit-cleaning Richie’s armpit hair. It drags wet against Eddie’s tongue.

He’s grinding his very hard dick against Richie’s leg shamelessly. They’re basically dry humping while Eddie makes out with Richie’s shoulder. They’re nice shoulders.

“Ah, shit, you little pervert,” Richie says. “You’re really getting off on this.”

He sounds thrilled.

Eddie lifts his head and looks Richie in the eyes. They’re both flushed and breathing hard. Eddie feels like he’s been running.

“Yeah,” he tells Richie, “I sure am.”

Richie blinks at him.

“I want to do the other thing, too,” Eddie says.

“What?” Richie says. “Like, the left one?”

“No, stupid,” Eddie says. “I wanna put my dick in here.”

Richie looks confused, as though he’s not the one who suggested the idea. Eddie never would have thought of it on his own. Yes, in the early days of realizing he really wanted to have sex with men (and maybe, hopefully, in an ideal world where Eddie Kaspbrak was a good person who deserved good things, have sex with Richie someday because he had perhaps been in love with him since high school) — Eddie had watched a lot of porn and maybe taken notes on it. But it had all been terribly vanilla, just handjobs and blowjobs and anal. Usually in that specific order. And at the end, there was always a lot of hissing and groaning and then semen got splattered on someone’s face.

But Richie joked about, and then let Eddie follow through on, all kinds of things that Eddie had never heard of or seen before.

“You wanna fuck my arm?” Richie asks.

Now Eddie just stops and blinks. For a second, he’s not even thrusting against Richie’s leg.

“Yeah,” he says. And he feels like pieces are clicking together in his head. Richie has rearranged little bits of plastic and metal and the semi-truck has become a robot from outer space.

“Okay,” Richie says. “So like, you just wanna hump me or maybe your spit’s lubed it up enough I could put my arm down and squeeze…”

Eddie’s brain feels like it’s melted down and pooled in his dick.

“And you can just go to town on me,” Richie says.

“Is that okay?” Eddie asks. “Would you… like that?”

There doesn’t seem to be anything in this arrangement for Richie’s pleasure. 

“Fuck yeah,” Richie says. He grins at Eddie all lopsided. “I love watching you go wild on me. I love seeing you come your brains out.”

“What is with you and brains today,” Eddie says. Richie laughs a little and squirms underneath him.

“Okay, we should…” Eddie starts thinking about logistics. He can’t just climb up on Richie because he’ll bash his skull into the wall behind the sectional. And he doesn’t want to do this all sideways, but between the two of them there’s a lot of body to arrange. He starts to push himself up and off Richie.

“Sit up a little,” Eddie says. “Like that shitty way you slouch with your laptop on your stomach when you’re writing.”

“Hey, fuck you! It’s comfy!” Richie says.

“It is not,” Eddie tells him. “You always bitch that your neck hurts afterwards.”

“Oh, but you want me to hurt my neck  _ now  _ just so you can get off?” Richie says.

“I’ll give you a massage after, you fucking geezer,” Eddie says. “Just like I do when it’s your fucking laptop and not me on top of you.”

“Oh,” Richie says. And he scoots up the lounge. Eddie takes a moment to tug the worn-out tank top off him. He throws it over his shoulder with a flourish.

“Drama queen,” Richie says.

“Slob,” Eddie says.

“On my  _ knob _ !” Richie says. 

“Shut up,” Eddie says. He climbs up and spreads his knees across the width of Richie’s chest. He leans a hand on the back of the couch to support him, so he’s not sitting on Richie’s ribs. He undoes his belt and tosses it aside the same as Richie’s shirt. He hears the buckle smack against the coffee table.

“Shit,” he mutters.

Richie laughs.

Eddie fumbles open the fly of his pants and pulls the front down. His cock has leaked all over the inside of his briefs. The angle of Richie’s head makes it obvious that he’s staring. He licks his lips. Eddie copies him. Then, he pulls down the elastic of his underwear.

Richie’s left hand pulls down the back of Eddie’s pants. He grabs Eddie’s ass, which is tense with the effort of holding himself with his knees so far apart. Eddie knows he’s never filled out a pair of sweatpants in any direction the way Richie does. Richie’s hand covers one cheek easily.

“Love your tight, little ass, Kaspbrak,” Richie says.

“Oh yeah?” Eddie replies. “Well, I love everything about you, Tozier.”

Richie presses his head back against the cushion and looks up at Eddie with enormous eyes. “Fuck.”

Eddie runs just fingers inside the curve of Richie’s armpit. It’s damp with spit, still, but not wet.

“Lift your arm like you’re stretching,” Eddie tells him.

“Like this?” Richie asks.

“No, like this,” Eddie says, leaning to his right so that Richie will lean left. He does. Eddie gathers all the spit he can, pulling it from his throat and sinuses. His face twists up. He leans over Richie’s exposed armpit.

And he spits in it.

“Jeez-fuck!” Richie says. “Fuck!”

“Sorry,” Eddie says. “Was that —?”

“That was so fucking _hot_ ,” Richie says.

“Oh, okay,” Eddie says. “Put your arm down.” He directs Richie’s movements with only his fingertips. He lines up his dick easily, leaning to one side. His knee slips against the fabric of the sectional cushions. The muscles of his inner thighs burn from the stretch.

The feeling is still too dry, too rough. Eddie is worked up. He’s wild, like Richie might say. Or he’s close to it. His dick drips like a faucet and it’s so flushed. He hisses through his teeth. Is this a good pain? 

His eyes flinch shut when he thrusts, which means he can’t look at Richie. The drag of just slightly damp skin against skin when he pulls back makes his jaw tense.

“You alright there?” Richie says.

“Not sure,” Eddie says.

“Wanna—” 

“No, I  _ don’t _ want to stop!” Eddie snaps at him. He wants this. He looks down his own body, sees the dark curls that frame his very red cock and the way it all looks against Richie’s pale skin. Even the places on Eddie’s body that never see the sun aren’t that pale. His cock is throbbing.

“Wait, wait,” Richie says, “there’s a bottle of lube in the drawer of the side table.”

“What?” Eddie asks. He looks at the table with the lamp sitting on it. He puts his coffee mugs on its coasters all the time.

“How long has it been there?” he asks.

“Uhhh,” Richie replies.

“No! Never mind!” Eddie shouts. “Don’t tell me!” He closes his eyes as though that will stop him from hearing.

“Just since we started really railing each other,” Richie says. “I thought someday we’d be watching Star Trek reruns and you might want me to fuck you on the couch.”

“You want to fuck me on the couch?” Eddie asks.

“Not right now!” Richie says.

Eddie looks at him. “But maybe later?”

“Maybe later,” Richie says, quietly.

“Well, we’d have to put a blanket down, because lube would definitely fuck up the upholstery,” Eddie says. “We should move this to our bedroom.”

He’s never going to get tired of that:  _ our _ bedroom.

“Aw, hey, no, come on,” Richie says. “If we move to the bedroom, you’re not… It’ll ruin the mood.”

Eddie tilts his head slightly to one side. Richie copies him. Eddie’s dick is still pressed between Richie’s arm and his ribs. It stings when Eddie moves, even a little. It reminds him of the shitty thing they used to do to each other as kids, grabbing each other’s arms and rubbing their hands in opposite directions until the friction burned their palms.

“Oh,” Eddie says, “you think this is like that shit with my socks.”

“What? No!” Richie says. His eyes are massive and his mouth is an unhappy, uneven shape that makes Eddie think of frogs or fish.

Eddie pries his fingers under Richie’s arm and levers it up. He pulls back. Richie makes the smallest, softest sound. Eddie doesn’t want to hurt him anymore than he wants to chaff the skin off his dick.

So he looks back, does some readjustment of clothing and posture, and sits his bare ass on Richie’s hard dick. The sweatpants are very soft, actually, well worn.

Richie makes a sound like a broken fax machine.

“Come on, Richie,” Eddie says. He grinds his hips down, feeling how hard Richie is for him even though Eddie hasn’t been doing anything. He’s just been selfish with Richie’s body.

“Let’s go to bed,” Eddie says. He can’t help the way he’s smiling. “Our bed, Rich, come on.”

Richie blinks up at him, so Eddie reaches down and tries to pull him up. It makes the muscles around his scar on the back twinge painfully. He makes a little sound.

“Shit, Eds,” Richie says, and he sits up in a hurry.

“I’m fine,” Eddie says. “I’m _fine_.” His voice is a mean little hiss.

“We should stop,” Richie says, with Eddie sitting on his dick.

Eddie tips his head back and clenches his jaw. He wants to scream. He wants to shout, “I want you so bad all the time it makes me feel even more insane than I actually am!” in Richie’s face. He wants to get up and yell out the windows about how much he loves Richie Tozier until somebody calls the cops.

Instead, he grabs Richie by the back of the neck and pulls him in for a hard, closed-mouth kiss. After a moment, Richie’s tongue presses against his upper lip. So, Eddie lets him in. They kiss. Richie gently sucks on Eddie’s lower lip. When Eddie pulls back there’s a wet pop.

“Let’s go to bed, take our clothes off, and try all this with some lube,” Eddie says. “Please.”

Richie sighs against his mouth.

“Alright,” he says. “If you’re sure you want to.”

“I am so fucking sure,” Eddie replies. He pulls back and rests his hands on Richie’s shoulders. For a moment he just looks at him, because he can.

“Wanna be fucking you,” he says.

“Oh, that was not a good one,” Richie says. He winces. “Besides, we were already sofa-king. I just don’t know who the fuck this ‘Sure’ is.”

Eddie smacks the meat of Richie’s right shoulder, which he is definitely going to fuck. Then he gets up and drops his pants. He peels his briefs off right there in the living room with his dick jutting out from his body at an acute angle. He grabs his polo and his undershirt and pulls them off as he heads for their bedroom door.

“Holy shitting Christ,” Richie says. “You are so hot.”

“ _ You _ are so hot, Rich,” Eddie says. He folds his polo shirt and sets it on the dresser.

“Socks on?” Eddie asks. “Or off?”

These are nice socks. Silk, navy blue, very warm. Eddie puts his ankle on his knee and wiggles his toes. He plays with the elastic of the sock band, hoping that it’s in a seductive way. Richie’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down.

“Off?” Richie says, his voice pitching up and wavering.

“Alright,” Eddie says. He looks at Richie, who looks better than pornography or art, standing there between their closed bedroom door and their bed. His hair has been slept on, fucked up by Eddie’s hands, slept on again, and then rubbed against the couch cushions. It sticks up a lot at the back of his head and on one side. His sweatpants have been pulled down a little and he hasn’t pulled them back up. His dark pubic hair shows above the waistband now, under the curve of his belly. The hair makes a gradient that Eddie wants to follow with his nose. He wants to pull the grey elastic waistband down with his teeth. He wants to feel Richie’s dick spring up and smack him on the chin like it did one time.

Eddie tries to peel his socks off as seductively as possible. But he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how to be sexy, has never wanted to be sexy before Richie.

“Is this, uh, doing it for ya?” Eddie asks, as he rolls his sock down over his heel. Richie laughs at him, but Eddie wants to laugh too. Sex is ridiculous, but he’s never laughed about it with anyone else.

“Yeah, man, everything you do kinda does it for me,” Richie says.

Eddie tosses his sock toward the clothes hamper.

“Ten points,” Richie says.

Eddie peels off his other sock and wiggles his toes. This feels so silly, but Richie is still standing there and watching him. When he steps forward, his cock swings a little side to side under his sweatpants. It makes Eddie’s chest feel too big and too small at the same time. His face burns. His heart pounds beneath his reconstructed, healed ribs.

“Can I,” Eddie starts. He swallows.

“Can you?” Richie asks. “Can you what?”

“Can I get a show, too?” Eddie says. He looks up at Richie’s face. Then back at his dick. 

“What kind of show, Eds?” Richie asks. “You know I  _ am _ in show business.”

“You know what kind of show, numbnuts,” Eddie snaps. 

“Oh,” Richie purrs. He twists his right arm around in front of his chest and flexes it. His fist is huge beside his face.

“You wanna see the goods,” Richie says. “The gunshow.”

He spreads both his arms out and then flexes his biceps, then his deltoids. He curls his lip and exaggerates licking over his teeth, then blows Eddie a kiss.

Eddie can hear his pulse in his ears. He wants to fling himself back on the bed, grab a pillow, and launch it at Richie. He wants to aim it right at his dick. Richie’s such a moron! He thinks this is still some kind of joke, like Eddie’s dick didn’t drip all over the sheets just to see the span of his arms and shoulders.

Clenching his jaw, Eddie looks Richie in his goofy face and puts his hand around his cock.

“Oh,” Richie says, and his arms fall to his sides. He hunches a little, his natural posture.

“I want to see your dick,” Eddie says.

He stops jerking off for a second to scoot backward on the bed. Richie doesn’t say anything stupid, even though Eddie can’t understand why he would pass up on such a golden opportunity. Instead, he just pulls the waistband of his sweatpants forward and down. His cock is big and heavy between his legs. 

Eddie leans back on the bed and stretches over to get the pump bottle of lube out of his bedside table. He puts it on a coaster. Not because it needs one, but it does fit there. So why not?

Richie climbs into bed and braces his arms on either side of Eddie’s chest. He’s on his hands and knees over Eddie. Eddie lays on his back and feels his stomach slingshot up his throat and then down into his dick. At least, that’s how it feels.

“Holy shit,” Eddie murmurs. He licks his lips.

Richie’s glasses are slipping down his nose. He pushes them back up with one hand.

“Yeah?” Richie asks.

Eddie puts his hand on Richie’s arm, lightly following the line of a muscle up to his elbow.

“Yeah,” he says. “Now sit up.”

Richie pushes himself up onto his knees and Eddie wiggles out from under his legs. Eddie reaches for the lube, but Richie puts a hand on his collarbone. He draws him in for a kiss. Oh, it’s sweet and open-mouthed and wet. Eddie can barely taste Richie’s coffee breath anymore. His mouth tastes the same as Eddie’s mouth, like spit.

Eddie pushes Richie down by his shoulders, leaning his weight onto him until he thinks better of it. Richie’s neck and back probably ache already.

On his knees, Eddie doesn’t have to bend too much to keep kissing Richie. So he really has to scoot back and pull Richie forward to get everything to line up.

Eddie holds Richie’s shoulder in one hand and arches back to get some lube with the other.

“What the fuck,” Richie whispers to himself.

Eddie uses his thumb and fills the palm of his hand with maybe more lube than he needs. Then he straightens up. Part of him kind of wants to just slap Richie in the face with a handful of lube, but that would actually ruin the mood.

He taps Richie’s bicep, and Richie raises his arm.

“Alright,” Eddie says. “I’m going to do it. I’m going to fuck your arm.”

“Aw, look at you,” Richie says. His chin is level with Eddie’s belly button when he looks up at him. “Out here getting the sex you want in life. I’m proud of you.”

Eddie reaches between them and slicks up Richie’s right armpit with his right hand. It’s cold, but only for a moment. When Richie shivers, Eddie does, too. Richie lowers his arm when Eddie takes his hand away.

“I’ll get you the sex you want in life,” he says, like a threat.

“Yeah, I think you will,” Richie replies. Then he presses a kiss to Eddie’s stomach.

Eddie leans to one side again, holding onto Richie’s shoulder. His right hand is slick around his cock and it feels so good. He  _ needs _ to get off, feels hot and breathless for it. He lines himself up with the crease of Richie’s arm.

“Feels like I put on way too much gel antiperspirant,” Richie says. 

Eddie tugs him forward when he thrusts. There’s a wet sound.

“Holy shit,” Richie says, laughing. He’s laughing and Eddie’s dick is pressed right against the side of his shaking chest.

“That’s so gross!” Richie says. And Eddie does not care. It’s wet, and it’s tight with all the strength of Richie’s stupidly enormous upper body. He can feel no roughness from Richie’s pit hair, it’s all just  _ wet _ .

Eddie’s dick isn’t that big, but Richie feels huge under his hand. So the fact that he can feel his cock breach to the back of Richie’s shoulder makes him feel… powerful. Pulling at Richie’s body and thrusting against him does, too. It’s obscenely wet, a loud and squelching sound on every movement. Richie grabs his ass with both hands. He’s laughing as he pulls Eddie toward him.

“This is so fucking funny,” Richie says.

“No,” Eddie says. 

“Yes, it is!” Richie says. He licks Eddie’s skin when Eddie thrusts hard. He’s basically shoving Richie’s face into his torso.

“It’s fucking hot,” Eddie says. “I can’t… I can’t…”

He’s fucking up Richie’s glasses and digging bruises into his arm.

“You let me,” Eddie says. “Fuck!”

“Yeah, I let you fuck,” Richie says. “Of course, I let you fuck.”

“Shut up,” Eddie pants. “Trashmouth.”

“You love it,” Richie says. “You sexy bastard. You wanna hear how much I love you and your body and all the weird shit I’d let you do to me. I love this, I love being your sexual journey, Eds. You get your fucking groove back.”

“Richie,” Eddie says. His thrusts are hard and shallow, focused on fitting the head of his cock into the tightest press of Richie’s arm.

“Rich,” he says.

“Yeah, baby, I know,” Richie says. “I can see you. I can hear you. Fuck, I wanna hear you come.”

And he gets to, because Eddie comes hard. He says it, though. He says, “I’m going to come, Rich. You’re so, fuck, hot. Fuck!”

And then he says, “Fuck” about ten more times before he stops thrusting into Richie’s armpit.

“Yeah, babe, mess me up,” Richie says. He squeezes Eddie’s left asscheek.

Eddie can’t catch his breath. He pulls away, lets his grip on Richie’s shoulder loosen. He’s kneeling one second and sitting on Richie’s hands the next. Then, he flops back on the bed.

“Fuck!” he says.

“That your new favorite word?” Richie asks.

Eddie does not have the wherewithal to reply, so he simply raises his hand and gives Richie the finger. Which Richie responds to in a very mature fashion: he grabs Eddie by the wrist and shoves his middle finger into his mouth. Eddie shrieks.

“What the fuck!”

Richie pulls his mouth off with a popping sound.

“Hm, I think your dick is shrinking more than usual,” Richie says.

“I hate you,” Eddie says. “Wait, no, I don’t. But fuck you. I should just use one finger the next time you ask me to put something in you.”

His words get broken into chunks by his heavy, uneven breaths.

“Get down here,” Eddie says. He beckons Richie with both hands.

Only with Richie does Eddie know he likes to kiss after he comes. The mood to touch, to taste, to hold lingers in him. If anything, he’s a little more clear headed.

Richie covers Eddie with his own body. His cock is hot and hard against Eddie’s thigh. Eddie feels prickly and warm everywhere they touch, especially where Richie’s chest hair rubs against him.

“Let’s do the foot thing again,” Eddie says, pushing Richie’s face just far enough from his that he can speak.

“You don’t have to,” Richie says.

“Do you like it?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “I guess.”

“That’s a real endorsement — I guess,” Eddie says. He gives Richie a quick kiss. “Well, I guess I should do it. Then we can both be gross and covered in lube.”

“And jizz,” Richie helpfully adds.

Eddie gags a little, because Richie is trying to gross him out. “You can’t talk me out of it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, you little sex freak,” Richie says. He goes up onto his hands when Eddie pushes him.

“I’m a big sex freak, thanks,” Eddie tells him. He pulls his left knee up to his chest. Richie whistles out a long, low note.

“How do you bend like that?” he says.

“Yoga,” Eddie says.

“I think I’m gonna sit up,” Richie tells him. 

Eddie reaches over for the lube and pulls his other knee up. His tailbone curves off the bed a little. His body rolls over to the right a little, but flattens back to the bed after he’s gotten another handful of lube.

When he looks at Richie, Richie isn’t looking at him. Eddie breathes and counts. One, two, three...

“Stop staring at my asshole,” he says, when he gets to ten.

Richie visibly startles and shakes his head. He blinks a couple times at Eddie.

“But it’s so pretty and I like it a lot,” Richie tells him.

“No one’s asshole is pretty,” Eddie tells him. “They’re all just full of shit, like you.”

“Hey, sometimes they’re full of dick and other things,” Richie says. He wiggles his fingers and his eyebrows.

Eddie ignores him in favor of turning his knees out and pushing the soles of his feet together.

“Holy shit, Eds!” Richie shouts.

“What?” Eddie snaps at him. 

“How the fuck can you do that?” Richie says. His voice sounds like Eddie kicked him in the balls.

“Do what?” Eddie asks. “And quit shouting at me, or I’ll throw lube at you.”

That’s a lie, obviously, because Eddie holds onto his ankle and slicks up the sole of one foot and then the next. It’s cold and wet and not really pleasant. He imagines walking on the hardwood after this will be really fun and incredibly dangerous.

“Your feet are just…” Richie motions with his hands, drawing them together as though praying.

“I told you, it’s fucking yoga,” Eddie says. “It’s Baddha Konasana.”

“Babadook what now?” Richie says.

“Shut up, don’t be racist when I’m about to let you fuck my feet,” Eddie tells him. “It kills the mood.”

“Pretty sure learning yoga from a twenty-something white chick is already kinda racist, babe,” Richie says.

Eddie scowls up at him. “But like, whatever! I’m not ungrateful! Just holy shit! Look at you!”

He puts his hands on Eddie’s knees and Eddie lets his shins melt down toward his chest. It makes Richie breathe out a whole string of things: Beautiful, gorgeous, amazing. Eddie cynically can’t believe them, but he knows Richie means every word.

“Come on,” Eddie says. “I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“It sure seems like you do,” Richie says.

Richie slides a hand down Eddie’s shin. He keeps glancing at Eddie’s face and then away.

“Can I?” Eddie asks. He’s really got to work on specifics. Richie isn’t psychic. When Richie nods, like he does now, or tells Eddie that anything is fine with him, it feels… It feels unfair. Like Richie’s letting him win at a game they could both enjoy more if Eddie lost every once in a while. But Eddie is kind of a sore loser. He likes to win.

He puts his hand on top of Richie’s on his ankle. He moves that hand up the length of his feet.

“Hold my toes,” Eddie says.

Richie’s eyes are huge and dark behind his glasses. “Fucking shit,” Eddie hears him mutter.

The way their bodies line up, Eddie can see Richie’s belly hanging softly between them. Richie doesn’t lower onto his elbow, just stares down between their bodies. Richie thrusts forward and Eddie parts his heels so that his cock will slide easily between his feet.

“Fuck,” Richie says.

“Your dick is huge, dude,” Eddie says. 

“Well your… your…” Eddie watches as Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier is rendered silent by the sight and sensation of his cock pressed tight between the soles of Eddie’s feet.

“This is hotter than I thought it was gonna be,” Richie says. He sounds overwhelmed. Eddie reaches up and strokes a hand over his wildly fucked up hair.

“Good,” Eddie says. “I want to be hot for you. You’re so fucking good to me, Rich. I want to know all the shit you’re into and I want to give it to you. You think I’m a sex freak, huh? I wanna be  _ your _ sex freak.”

Richie groans. Eddie closes his fist in his hair.

“You like when I run my mouth, don’t you?”

Richie’s thrusts get faster. His hand squeezes around Eddie’s toes. There’s lube dripping onto Eddie’s stomach, splattered by the force and direction Richie’s dick.

“Yeah, you do. I like when you run your mouth, too.”

“Not gonna last long,” Richie warns him. “If you keep going like that.”

“Nice,” Eddie says. “I like when I make you blow your load in a hurry.”

“Fuck!” Richie says. His hand slips a little and he thrusts so hard it forces Eddie’s feet up towards his sternum. 

“You know, this morning, when I saw you in the kitchen, I kept thinking about how much I like eating your ass,” Eddie says. Richie starts shaking.

“I love it. I wanna taste every inch of you, Rich. I want you to feel so good. I want to make you feel good. You’re so good.”

He’s not really looking anymore. Eddie puts his head back and closes his eyes. He keeps petting Richie’s hair. He maybe pulls on it a little, because it’s offensively soft for someone who uses bar soap as shampoo occasionally. And he knows Richie likes it. 

This, too, is something he knows that Richie likes. Richie likes sucking his dick really messily and he likes coming in Eddie’s mouth. He likes Eddie’s fingers inside him — maybe more than he likes Eddie’s dick, but he won’t admit it. He likes fucking up Eddie’s styled hair at the end of a long workday and leaving hickeys on Eddie’s belly and thighs. He likes Eddie’s running clothes. He might like Eddie’s socks? He likes the way Eddie does dishes. He likes Eddie’s feet. He likes Eddie.

“Come on, Richie,” Eddie says. He sweeps his hand down Richie’s sweating neck to hold his shoulder.

“I want you to come all over me.”

And Richie does, with a tight-lipped whine. His come is warmer than the lube that is also all over Eddie’s stomach. There’s wetness all the way up to Eddie’s collarbones.

Richie pulls back, suddenly, and Eddie’s eyes fly open. He sees Richie, kneeling before him and red from his forehead to his nipples. His cock moved in his hand as he jerks the last few drops onto Eddie’s feet. Richie’s mouth hangs open; his lips are red and wet like the head of his cock. There’s a drop of spit at the corner. His eyes are so dark. His brows are drawn together as though he’s in pain.

“Holy shit,” Eddie says. Is this what a revelation feels like? He feels like the whole mattress has been pulled out from under him.

Richie groans and sits back hard on the bed. Eddie’s body bounces slightly. Those commercials with the bowling ball are a fucking lie.

“Holy shit,” Richie says. “I think I’m brain dead now.”

Eddie pulls his knees together and wiggles his hips. Oh, he’s going to feel this tomorrow. 

“Scratch that,” Richie says. “Pretty sure I’m dead and this is my personal sex heaven.”

Eddie wants to snap at him again, but it really doesn’t look like Richie’s looking at his butt. His eyes are too lifted. He feels something childish wash over him, and lifts one foot. He wiggles his toes in Richie’s face while Richie goes cross-eyed.

“Hey, Rich, you wanna lick it off?” Eddie asks. He’s grinning widely now.

Richie blinks hard. He shakes his head.

“No, nope,” Richie says. “I’m a different person now. I don’t even know you anymore. I’ve definitely never wanted to lick your toes.”

So, Eddie kicks him in the face with his lubed up foot. Just a light, wet smack. Richie yelps and tumbles back on the bed.

“Richie!” Eddie says, scrambling to sit up. Richie’s head hangs off the end of the bed.

“Be careful,” he says.

“Can’t,” Richie says. “Won’t. Besides, you already killed me with your sexy, sexy feet.”

Eddie picks up his left heel and then drops it onto Richie’s stomach. Richie springs back up like an inflatable Punch-Me. He snags Eddie by the ankle.

“Keep joking about death and I will actually kill you,” Eddie warns.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot that only one of the guys who nearly died in this relationship is allowed to joke about it,” Richie says. “I’ll scrap that thing I’m working on that’s a play on pearl necklace and pearly gates.”

“Gross,” Eddie says.

“We’re both gross, baby,” Richie says. He smiles at Eddie and rubs his thumb over the curve of Eddie’s heel. “Wanna take a shower with me?”

“Get me a washcloth first,” Eddie says. “I don’t wanna slip on your sperm and break my neck.”

Richie throws his head back laughing. His thumb slides over the arch of Eddie’s foot and that’s nice, actually. Would it be wrong to try to incorporate foot massages into their foreplay? Is that taking advantage of Richie?

“Quit laughing!” Eddie says. “I’m serious!”

“Alright,” Richie says. He drops Eddie’s foot and hefts his whole body off the bed sideways. He’s  _ so _ big, Eddie thinks.

“Anything for my sweet, little sex freak!” Richie calls over his shoulder.

“Fuck you!” Eddie says, from the bed. He wipes his foot on the sheets, because they’re easy to wash.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Richie says. “You’re a big sex freak. My sweet,  _ enormous _ sex freak.”

For some reason Richie turns on the shower faucet. Eddie scoots to the foot of the bed to try to see into the bathroom. Richie always leaves the door open. He comes out of the bathroom smiling. His glasses are slightly steamed up. His cock is still so thick after he’s come, flushed and soft. He hasn’t bothered to wipe it off. But neither has Eddie! He’s definitely got lube gunk in his pubes.

“The jizz rag you requested,” Richie says, “my hot, insatiable, nympho.”

“Thanks,” Eddie says. And he would call Richie an asshole, but the washcloth is hot in his hands. It feels good!

“Oh,” he says. “It’s warm.”

His feet feel colder for a second, then blissfully warm and refreshed. Eddie can’t help the way that he sighs. Richie stands at the foot of the bed and watches him clean between his toes.

“You’re always complaining your feet are cold,” Richie says.

Eddie finishes cleaning the lube and come off the soles of his feet. He tosses the washcloth down on the bed, for drama. Then he thinks about mildew and immediately snatches it back up.

“I love you,” he says, staring at the damp spot on the sheets. He said it so much when he didn’t mean it that he never knew it could be hard to say. But it feels fake, still. How could those words ever convey the way he feels right now? It’s like he’s going to explode.

Eddie swallows past the lump in his throat.

“I know,” Richie says. He sits on the bed in front of Eddie. His hand tugs the dirty washcloth out of Eddie’s grip. 

“Trust me, right now I  _ really _ know,” Richie says.

“Do you?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “And I love you, too. A little more every day, which I would’ve thought was pretty impossible 'cause you were already the love of my life from the beginning.”

“Shit,” Eddie says. “Richie.”

He has to swallow again.

“Okay, come on, don’t be a pussy,” Richie says. His free hand taps the side of Eddie’s arm.

“I’m not being a fucking pussy,” Eddie snaps. He’s grateful to Richie for being so fucking obnoxious that Eddie can be just a little mad instead of whatever other emotions he’s feeling.

“I’m in love with you!” Eddie says. 

“Yeah, me too,” Richie says. He pulls on Eddie’s arm and Eddie reluctantly moves with him. They’re getting out of bed one foot at a time, together.

“Oh, you’re in love with you, too, huh?” Eddie says. “Yeah, that explains a lot.”

“I’m in love with you,  _ Edward _ ,” Richie says. “Eddie, my love. My one and only. Don’t be such a twerp about it.”

“I’ll be a fucking twerp if I want to be,” Eddie says, locking the bathroom door behind him.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “I know you will. Ain’t I lucky?”

He steps into the shower and gets it running — hot. The water doesn’t take long, since he was just in here using it. He’s so thoughtful, Eddie thinks. He crosses his arms over his chest and watches Richie kick at the stream of water, then turn the shower heads on and jump back from the spray like a startled cat. It makes Eddie laugh.

“Take your glasses off,” he says, stepping into the shower and reaching up for the sides of Richie’s head. He folds his glasses and sets them out on the sink counter.

“I’m taking you out for brunch after this,” Eddie says.

“Like fancy brunch or diner breakfast food that you call brunch 'cause it’s noon?” Richie asks.

“It’s like 10:15,” Eddie complains.

“Take your FitBit off,” Richie tells him. So he does, setting it next to Richie’s glasses.

“Diner brunch,” Eddie says, getting back in the shower behind Richie. Already soaking wet, Richie turns around and puts his arms around Eddie. All the lube on Eddie’s stomach and on his cock turns slimy from the water on Richie’s skin where they press close. He feels Richie sigh. Richie’s lips press against his forehead. 

Eddie thinks about how he wants to soap up and get all the gunk off of him. He thinks about how he wants to turn them around and let his back be pelted by water while he kisses Richie under the spray. He thinks about how they’ll brush their teeth after this, crowding each other in front of the fogged up mirror. He thinks about the bacon that Richie will order and that Eddie will steal and eat.

For the moment, though, he is held in Richie’s arms. That’s enough.


End file.
